My house is rather empty. Therefore it is rather tidy.
The kids are to bed and so I thought I'd write a story.
But not just any story, it has to be funny. Because laughing is one of my all time favorite activities.
I'm not good at making up stories so this one is, regrettably, true.
Many years ago young Jordan was a cheerleader in high school. Jordan was the co-captain of the varsity squad, which sounds like an auspicious title, but I can assure you the most glamorous that title was, was it printed in fuzzy gold letters on the back of my letter jacket.
In some American high schools we have what is known as "the pep rally" which is a dang good excuse to skip 45 minutes of class. The entire school, ENTIRE school filed into the large gymnasium and sat waiting for the pep band and cheerleaders to entertain them for 45 minutes on a big game day. I'll admit now, we hadn't a clue what we were doing. We danced, did some cheers, and played silly games--really I have no memory of how we filled the rest of the 38 minutes after that. But the important part to remember was the school showed up to be entertained.
The cheerleading squad lined up across the gym to do our first dance to the cheerleading essential: Gary Glitter's "Rock and Roll, Part 2" (Heck yes I had to Google that. It's a song EVERYONE can hum, but no one knows the title. Go ahead you doubters, Google it). As I take my place I notice I'm right in front of the pep band who have filled half of the lower bleachers. Then I gaze up and see an ocean of black and gold jerseys...the football team seated together. It's game day, they're dressed in their away jerseys and are highly noticeable. Also, please note they were highly noticeable to the 15 year old Jordan anyhow. They could've all been dressed like the goths that hung out in smokers alley and I could've picked 'em out of the crowd.
The dance begins. I. Am. Pumped. Up. In the egocentric world most 15 year old adolescents live in I just knew people were watching me. I suddenly knew their thoughts; "Wow, look at Jordan!" "Who knew that girl could busta move?" "I wish I could dance like her." I began to move like Beyonce. (Yet, I didn't know her as Beyonce--she was ⅓ of TLC.) But I was white, I had pompoms in my hands, and my uniform wasn't horribly skanky. Sorry I said skanky on this blog.
It wasn't enough to know I was dancing my heart out--I wanted to make sure those football players could see me, KNEW I could dance. Because cool choreography is apparently a way to a fellas heart in a teenage girls mind. The big part of the song was coming up: the part where everyone shouts, "HEY!" and all the cheerleaders would do a high kick punctuating it. I knew then and there that would be my schtick. I would be the greatest high-kicker EVER. Straight from CCHS to the Radio City Rockettes, ladies and gentlemen.
On the "HEY!" I kicked...violently. My leg rose higher, and higher, and higher than ever before. My pointed toe, clad in pristine white cheerleading shoes eclipsed my 5'2" height. And wonder of wonders or I should say, horror of horrors, my trusty 'ol left leg decided to follow suit.
"WHAT THE HECK, LEFT LEG!!!" Such betrayal over a member of my own body! With both my legs in the air my body planted my back on the floor. Oh my ever living-loving-gosh I had just kicked my legs out from under myself. The idiotic thought ran through my head, "Did anyone see that?!?!?!?" I was laid out flat on the gym floor and I lifted my head to peek over my prostrate body and a good ⅔ of the pep band had ceased playing their instruments...from laughter.
"Cr@p" (sorry mom, it's what went through my head). I figured to play it safe and NOT glance any higher to see the state of the football team. I rolled to my stomach, quietly gathered my shreds of dignity...and crawled off the gym floor.